There’s a telegraph wire beyond my garden,
a heavy black line drawn against the sky.
To my right it meets a pole, then heads off
in a new direction, passing behind my right shoulder.
Hanging on that line, an orange sun is contemplating a dip
in the sea; the pillar of light on the water says so;
beyond that, the hills behind Killybegs are a series
of grey shapes, shadows doused in a pink haze.
I am listening to Plinio Fernandes’ classical guitar;
each note followed by a space, that permits it to fall,
to settle a moment in my head; and then there’s the sun’s
hesitation above the water; and then I spot the pidgeon
on the telegraph wire, listening to the guitar. I notice
that he is connected to the sun, the other side of the pole;
and the sun to the sea; sea to the hills; and myself;
all, somehow, immersed in this music.
